


Corner the Market

by sweetcupncakes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, I Blame Tumblr, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Possessive John, Virgin Sherlock, sexually repressed sherlock, straight up porn, until he isn't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-22
Updated: 2013-11-22
Packaged: 2018-01-02 07:26:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1054093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetcupncakes/pseuds/sweetcupncakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John bites the vulnerable skin that maps over kidneys.  Sherlock moans and struggles, which seems like a worthwhile thing so John does it again.</p><p>“You can want it.  You’re allowed to want it.”  John tells him.</p><p>Sherlock closes his eyes and shakes his head in disagreement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Corner the Market

**Author's Note:**

> Pretty much all porn. Just porn for the sake of porn. If I'm going to hell, I'm taking all you pervs with me.

“This can’t continue,” Sherlock’s voice reaches into John, fills him from the bottom up.  The entire room vibrates with it, shadows could cling to the underside of that rich intonation and be given form and definition.

“Right.” John pushes black trousers out of his way, sucks a bruise into the hollow of Sherlock’s hip, “Right.”  

He nuzzles briefly into the crease where sloping pelvis turns into erect cock.  Sherlock smells like cotton, and soap, and sex, just there and John has to hold himself back from simply sucking him down.  He rests his head against a pale thigh, smears his nose and mouth against coarse, dark, curls, tongues wetly at the base of his flatmate’s prick. Sherlock breathes out shakily, a hint of his voice echoing into the exhale.  John touches himself through his jeans and shifts.  He positions himself a few scant centimeters from the head of Sherlock’s erection.  Breathes warm, moist air against the tip, he looks up into wide eyes.  Sherlock’s pupils choking out the kaleidoscope of blue and green and grey.  

John licks his lips, the tip of his tongue brushing a small stripe across the glans, “Push me away, then.”  He nudges softly with his nose, darting his tongue out again to steal another taste.

Sherlock only sighs, tilts his head back against the cushion of the sofa.  He gathers the shoulder of John’s jumper in his fist.  “John.”

His hand moves to cup the nape of John’s neck, tracing the curve of shoulder and throat in a way that absolutely does not mean stop.  Sherlock doesn’t typically touch John.  John takes what he can get.

John licks and sucks at the head, flushed pink with blood and heavy against his tongue.  The bitter of precome dilluted by the drag of John’s saliva.  Up and down, up and down, all sultry friction and swirling tongue, and Sherlock shakes underneath him.  Fingertips wind hard into the material of John’s jumper, another hand scratches against the grain of his hair.  Sherlock says John’s name again and then he’s coming and coming.  Salty and sharp, John let’s the taste flood his mouth before he swallows it away.  He can hear the tick of Sherlock’s watch against his ear, counting down the moments before the man pushes up from the couch and leaves John completely bereft.

He wants to lay himself across Sherlock’s body, writhe against the grip of pale hands on his waist.  Wants to touch that spot between his flatmate’s shoulder blades where freckles travel in linear patterns like constellations. ( John saw them once, he knows they’re there.) Sherlock decided to forgo the decency of a shirt in the middle of the summer heat wave.  He walked about the flat an entire day in only striped pyjama bottoms, raging and raging about boredom and snapping John’s head off at every available opportunity. John cornered him against the fridge and touched him through the soft cotton until Sherlock came in his pants.  It shut him up for awhile.  

Afterward, Sherlock said, “That was a one time thing,” stripped the pyjama pants off right there in the kitchen and flung them at John.  “You need to do the wash,” and he walked starkers through the flat and into the shower.  John’s mouth watered at the sight.  He brought himself off on the striped garment.  They were going in the wash anyway.  

 

Sherlock’s breathing slows, leather squeaks under the shifting of sweat slicked skin.  John risks reaching up to brush a caress against that full bottom lip.  Unkissed.  He’s never been kissed.  He’s only been touched, by John.  That’s it.  Of course John didn’t know that at the time, he could only think about pinning Sherlock against a flat surface and swallowing him down; unable to prevent himself allowing the physical manifestation of their bond to spill over into his tongue and lips.  It wasn’t until Sherlock’s orgasm ebbed into awareness and he knocked John over with a knee that John had realized it. Sherlock had been brilliant, absolutely brilliant at a crime scene.  They’d chased a serial rapist across London and cornered the bastard in an alleyway in Tottenham.  

They had gone back to 221B after giving the proper statements to Scotland Yard, adrenaline high and smelling of it.  Sherlock’s eyes the color of smoke and frost and heart-breakingly stunning.  John wanted him, wanted to have him.  Ever since he set sights on Sherlock bending over with a pipette in hand at that lab at St. Bart’s.  John felt a bit guilty, having just assumed that Sherlock had experimented with sex somewhere and at some point in his life.  

He should have stopped, John should have stopped then.  But once he started touching Sherlock, something broke open at the heart of him and he couldn’t shut it off if he tried.

Beautiful lips, petulant and perfect.  The possibilities in surging upward, licking his way into Sherlock’s mouth, sucking until carnation pink gave way to bruise red.  A voluptuous heart, shining with their combined saliva.  John’s devotion given physical reciprocation.  

Sherlock doesn’t want to touch him.  Or he is afraid to touch him, John isn’t sure which.  Maybe he just can’t be arsed, wouldn't be the first time. That’s okay.  Doesn’t change the fact that John still wants to stroke, and fondle, and invade.  

Sherlock bats John’s hands away from his lips, pushes hard at John’s shoulder until John relents and moves away.   The new space allows the man to tug up his trousers and bolt from the couch like a greyhound from the gate.  John sighs, goes upstairs to his room, and takes off all his clothes.  

 

\----

 

“I told you I don't want this.” Sherlock says.

John presses him down at the hips, bends and scrapes his teeth at the Venusian dimples on the small of Sherlock’s back, licks there.  Sherlock gasps, his stomach arching off the table, pushing more skin against John’s mouth.  

Sherlock wouldn’t stop looking absolutely fucking gorgeous, this morning.  It was distracting for John.  He really wanted to read the news, and he couldn’t do that as long as Sherlock was there.  All floppy curls and nibbling at toast.  

John bent him over the table.

John bites the vulnerable skin that maps over kidneys.  Sherlock moans and struggles, which seems like a worthwhile thing so John does it again.

“You can want it.  You’re allowed to want it.”  John tells him.

Sherlock closes his eyes and shakes his head in disagreement.

John spits into his hand, reaching around to pull at Sherlock’s cock.  It’s hot and has already leaked a wet spot onto the varnished wood of their dining room table.  An empty Erlenmeyer flask tips off the table and shatters into bits on the floor.  

“Tell me to stop,” John recommends as Sherlock bucks into his hand.  Short of Sherlock killing him, that’s the only thing that would keep John from touching him.  

Instead, Sherlock says “Fuck,” and “ _Fuck_.”   Yes, John thinks, that would be fantastic.  He’d write a bloody sonnet about it afterward, read it aloud in an obscure cafe at some hipster poetry slam.  

Sherlock shouts and comes over John’s fingers and onto the table.  He breathes and breathes, rubs his cheeks against the cool wood.  John holds him there until Sherlock gets leverage over his hands and begins pushing up.  John wants to slip his palm up to the nape of Sherlock’s neck, keep him still, rut against his plush arse until he comes in his jeans.  

He lets Sherlock up.  

Sherlock straightens, rolls his hips in a small circle, working out the kinks and turns to face John.  John resists the temptation to scrub his hands over the thin skin covering the ilium.   

He expects Sherlock to say, “ _Clean the mess from the table_ ,” or “ _Your oafish fumbling broke my favorite Erlenmeyer flask.  Go fetch me another_.”

Sherlock’s eyes shift as if unsure of something, and he steps, reclaiming the space between John and himself.  

“Touch yourself,” he says.  And John just stares.  “Do it.”

John does.  He unbuttons his jeans, begins stroking himself.  Sherlock watches his hand move for a moment, then tilts his head and stoops to bury his nose at the crook of John’s neck.  He rests his hands lightly against John’s ribs.

John hisses when he feels the faintest press of a kiss at his shoulder, then soft, black curls tickling his throat.  Sherlock licks his ear, bites tenderly at the lobe, and John comes with a surprised, “ _Oh_.”

All Sherlock says is, “Fascinating.”  He walks off to the sofa, pops open John’s laptop and his fingers begin flying over the keys.

John pants, wipes himself off with the hem of his shirt, and sweeps the broken labware from off the floor.  He uses a wet napkin to gloss over the spot to pick up any tiny shards left by the broom.  He doesn’t want Sherlock to step on one and cut a toe.

 

\-----

 

John is sorting through boxes of old medical journals in his room when Sherlock pulls, actually _pulls_ John up and on top of him.  They sprawl over the bed.  John is hard already. Sherlock bucks up against his front and John’s hands fly to unbutton Sherlock’s trousers and his own.  Sherlock allows it, John doesn’t take pause.  He’s afraid to leave any space, if he leaves even the barest inch between them, Sherlock might push John off the bed and flee.

John brings their cocks together, licks his hand and grabs.  Sherlock picks up the rhythm and rocks into John’s fist for a few thrusts before setting his own hand to the mix.  John groans.

“Let me kiss you,” he whispers, their mouths are so close, it would be so easy to just catch those lips, “Please, Sherlock.”

The detective shuts his eyes for a moment, purses his lips, and lifts his chin.

John fights the urge to latch on and lick like a cat to the cream, but he starts slow.  He nudges Sherlock’s prim nose, ghosts his lips over the bow of the upper lip.  Applies soft pressure, again and again until Sherlock opens his mouth and sighs into him.  John traces lips with his tongue, and ventures inward.  Sherlock reciprocates, barely, at first. Tentative undulations against John’s practiced technique.  The world narrows down to Sherlock’s lips and tongue, and their cocks sandwiched between their hands and stomachs.  

Sherlock begins to pant into John’s mouth, which is lovely indeed. He doesn’t turn his head, only beckons John closer with every sweet breath.  John presses his mouth against Sherlock’s, the kiss turns filthy and unpredictable. Sherlock must be close to climax because he starts fucking John’s mouth with his tongue, mimicking the cadence of their mutual impetus.  John loves it.  Revels in the sloppy drag of their kiss.  Only he’s had Sherlock’s mouth.  Only him.  If Sherlock were to ever kiss anyone else, he would kiss like John.  

Sherlock moans into John, and pulses sticky and wet over their knuckles.  John brings him through it and sets his hand to work on his own cock while Sherlock goes soft underneath him.

Then Sherlock moves.  John thinks he’s leaving.  But no, no, Sherlock is rolling him over and shimmying down his body.  

And _fuck fuck fuck_ he licks the head of John’s cock, and only has time to give a brief suck to the slit before John is shouting and coming on his lips.  He paints the kiss bruised heart in stripes of white.  Sherlock looks both alarmed and smug.  It’s a good look on him.  Confused and satiated.  Prideful and debauched.  John likes it. Likes it a lot.  He hauls Sherlock up before he can say anything, and licks his own ejaculate from his flatmate’s mouth and chin.

Neither one of them speak in regard to the progress of things, yet progress has been made.

Sherlock’s tired, he says as much and proceeds to fall asleep, spread out like starfish on the bed. John stares at him and gives up sorting his journals.  

\------

 

John has Sherlock in bed again, this time there’s no barrier of clothes between them.  That was the first thing John was sure to do, he didn’t want anything in the way of setting as much skin as possible to Sherlock’s own.  John licks his way over a hard nipple, grazes his teeth against it, gets harder when the World’s Only Consulting Detective makes a hoarse keening sound.  The vibration of garbled vowels buzz under John’s tongue.

Sherlock allows a hand to trace the line of John’s spine and fist into ash blonde hair.  He tugs and they fit their lips together.  They move smoothly against one another, tongues and arms and legs making room and taking room, working as a sort of symbiotic unit, even here.  John licks down the white expanse of throat and begins to suck a blood bruise.

“Stop that, I won’t be able to take off a scarf in public for weeks.”

John pulls off with a smack, laves his tongue over the darkening blossom, “Too late.  Sorry about that.”  He doesn’t care who sees, John wants them to see.  Men and women alike are continuously trying to chat Sherlock up, despite his immediate rejections.  Maybe a nice love bite will help as a deterrent.  Seems slightly more polite than, “ _Bugger off, he’s mine_.”

John’s partners have often commented upon him being a possessive lover.  Maybe he would fret over it, try to stifle the urge to claim and mark, if it wasn’t for the fact that Sherlock owns John as much as John owns him.  A pair, the two of them.  

John wants more.  He puts a hand under Sherlock’s knee, spreads the long limb out even farther so John can settle between his open legs.  John begins climbing down Sherlock’s body, planting wet kisses all the way down lithe muscles that tighten and release with each caress.  He sits between the the capital V, bends down to lick and suck at the glans of Sherlock’s cock.  Just because he can.  Just because it’s right there.  Just because he wants it between his lips, and he smears a thumb through the bead of precome at the slit of his own prick.  He suckles lightly, listening to stuttered moans.  John reaches to press his wet thumb against Sherlock’s arsehole and _oh shit, oh Christ,_ Sherlock’s breath catches mid-groan and suddenly he’s turning himself over flat on his belly under John’s hands.  

“ _Yes_ ,” he says, “Do it.  Hurry. Fuck.”

John decides to take that literally, he’s pretty sure it was intended that way.  “You’re sure?” _Say yes_.  

 

“Yes.   _Yesyesyes_ ,” Sherlock confirms when John rubs the damp head of his cock against Sherlock’s perineum.

John reaches over to his nightstand, rifles about for the tube of lubricant and a condom.  He continues to hold Sherlock down, because he likes the way that looks.  Fantastic arse.  He imagines that arse, often.  At crime scenes when Sherlock’s bent over in those tight trousers.  At the lab bench when Sherlock is crouched over developing petri dishes being more clever than all of St. Bart’s employees combined.  

He pours lube over his fingers, reaches between the cheeks of a perfect arse and applies a circulating pressure to Sherlock’s hole.  It flutters under John’s ministrations, he tips the first finger in, gently massaging in and out.  Unsure gasps turn into pants.

He adds another after waiting a full minute for Sherlock to adjust and begins the process over again, scissoring his fingers when he feels Sherlock relax into the stretch.  John hooks a finger, and, yes, there: Prostate.  Sherlock yelps and presses harder into John’s hand, fucking himself there.  John’s mouth pools with saliva.  He removes his fingers and watches Sherlock arch his back in a plea for more.

He can’t spare another moment, John rolls on the condom and begins slicking himself up, hissing at the friction of his own hand. He positions the head against Sherlock’s arsehole.  He rubs insistently, glossing up and over.  Revels in the feel of Sherlock opening a little more with each pass.

“JOHN!”  Sherlock shouts at him, managing to complain and pout even though his arse is in the air and waiting to be fucked.

John continues to tease a bit, because that’s fun.  Feels nice, the right kind of teasing.  When anyone else teases Sherlock, John wants to take out his Sig and start shooting.  But that’s definitely a different sort of provocation.  (Although John is pretty sure he’d have the same sort of violent reaction if he caught Anderson teasing Sherlock this way.  He’d happily kill the inept fool.  After he vomited.)

He presses blunt flesh against tight heat, and then Sherlock shoves backward and, “ _Fuck_ , Sherlock,” **in**.  It’s just a couple of inches, but Sherlock, having miscalculated the need to go slow, is gasping. _Yes, you idiot.  You’ll hurt yourself that way_.

John locks his arms over Sherlock’s back, holds him in place, keeps him from getting away.  

But Sherlock is squirming around John’s prick and making these _noises_.

“Hold still!   _Hold Still_ ,”  John manages to say, “Tight, Sherlock you’re--   _Christ_ ,”  He puts as much weight as he can into the hold without slipping from where he’s partially sheathed.  Sherlock struggles for a moment more, and then starts going pliant.  

That’s the part John loves the most.  When Sherlock for all of his quick wit and sharp tongue, goes soft and malleable, relents control, hands it over to John with his entire body.  

John moves gently inside of the detective, filling him a little more every other thrust.  

“More, harder, John,” Sherlock begins to chant, and John reaches a lubed hand to wrap around Sherlock’s cock, strokes.

Sherlock’s hole clutches at him and John has to hold his body still for a moment.  He doesn’t slam into Sherlock, and he doesn’t and doesn’t and doesn’t, and as much as John wants to absolutely fuck the coherency out of Sherlock, he can’t risk hurting him.  Sherlock has never done this before, and the ever-vigilant part of John that strives to protect and care for the man, keeps John from fucking him straight through mattress, immediately.

He starts thrusting again, building momentum, angling his hips just so, brushing at Sherlock’s prostate.  Sherlock curses some more, each oath low and deep and all the dirtier for it.

After several minutes, both of them are covered in sweat, and John is able to press in and out as freely as he pleases.  He does, he grabs Sherlock by the hips and pistons into him rough and sweet.  Sherlock likes it, tells John to fuck him like that, just like that.  

John scratches his nails down the curve of a lissome back and _coming_ , Sherlock is shuddering and spilling all over the duvet, not even a finger to his own cock.  He clenches around John.  He only need give a  couple more frantic thrusts and John slumps over the detective’s back, buries himself completely in snug heat.  His orgasm pulses inside of the latex, inside of Sherlock.

His Sherlock, his madman.

John stays sprawled, they sweat on each other.  John breathing into a shoulder, Sherlock breathing into the bed.

John pulls out slowly, smiles when Sherlock collapses his hips away from the wet spot where he came, and rubs his face indulgently against the cotton sheets.  Sable curls form a fuzzy halo of just-been-shagged.  He sighs, a content noise that matches the tempo of John’s heart.  John lies beside his Sherlock, gathers himself toward the long body.  Sherlock offers John his mouth, they kiss slow and deliberate until Sherlock snuffles down into John’s bicep and uses it as a pillow.   His arm will likely fall asleep under the weight of Sherlock’s head, but that’s okay.  He’ll wake up to the tingling of his digits, like a thousand tiny ants biting and crawling, and John could not possibly care less.

John kisses and kisses the spot between Sherlock’s shoulder blades.

John uses his fingertips to draw constellations on Sherlock’s skin.  

Three light brown freckles in a row.  Orion’s belt.


End file.
